Keys
by Got Tea
Summary: It's the middle of the night, but Boyd is preoccupied with what's going to happen the next day.


**Keys**

 **…**

For once it is not the harsh, imperious shrieking of his mobile phone or the aggravating, obnoxious summons of the alarm clock that prematurely yanks Boyd out of the depths of his slumber, but rather a small, impatient foot planted squarely into his shin. He jerks awake with the kind of gasping, choking half-leap into a sitting position that provokes both a muffled snort of laughter from his bedfellow, and a sudden, rapid escalation of his heartrate as the fight or flight response kicks in and he swears in panic, blindly fighting the bedcovers for supremacy as he struggles to disentangle the alarming chaos of his dreams from reality.

Reality is the small, slender body curled up beside him. Reality is the cosy warmth of this bedroom which is not his, but in which he now firmly belongs at night. Reality is the soft, sleepy chuckling coming from somewhere near his left elbow. Reality is the delicate hand that reaches out to settle on his arm, running up and down soothingly as she encourages him to relax and lie back down again.

"You were shouting 'Keys! Spit out the bloody keys'," Grace murmurs, snuggling back against him as he settles again, curling himself around her invitingly limp, relaxed body.

"Fuck," he mutters in reply, remembering with sudden unwelcome clarity exactly what he was dreaming about.

"What was it about?" she yawns, her head pressing back into his shoulder as his hand moves to rest on her waist.

His instinct is to do anything at all possible to avoid telling her the truth, but his heart baulks at the idea. This is the woman who, over the last few months, has shared some incredibly painful and personal stories with him in the sleepy midnight hours after being awoken time and time again by nightmares, or simply just kept awake through fear of sleeping. Share, and share in return; that is the way their relationship works, the way they promised to relate to each other. It's a promise they both take seriously, and that has protected their relationship through some very rocky moments.

"Adam Grouse," Boyd admits at last, working an arm between hers just so he can lay his palm against her chest and feel the steady, reassuring beat of her heart. He's not at all surprised when Grace begins to giggle, or when a soft mew of protest issues from the bottom of the bed. In the pale slivers of moonlight shining into the room he can just see a pair of luminous green eyes glaring at him in the dark as Freyja gets to her feet, stretches in disgust, turns and rearranges herself before tucking her long tail over her eyes and presumably falling straight back asleep again.

Grace knows exactly who he's talking about. And though she has never personally met the former army drill sergeant turned now retired Met police officer turned officer safety trainer, he knows she is well aware of the stories surrounding the short, heavily muscular cannonball of a man who can, when he so desires, be every bit as fearsome as his aggressive reputation suggests, but is in reality far more likely to be found mercilessly teasing new recruits as he expertly guides them through the process of transition from civilians to fully qualified officers with a comprehensive knowledge of self-defence and a thorough understanding of the practical and legal applications of use of force in the line of duty.

What she doesn't know, Boyd gloomily reflects as he rests his head back on the pillow, inclining it forward so that he can gently inhale the scent of her, is the reason why every year when the calendar inches around toward his mandatory refresher training date he winces with something considerably more than just mild discomfort. Perhaps he should tell her. Then again, maybe he shouldn't. Honesty. Sharing. Promises.

As if reading his thoughts, Grace quietly asks, "What is it with you and that man, Peter? Why do you always act like the universe is about to end whenever you have to go and spend a day in his gym?"

Boyd flinches. He can't help it. She notices, he knows, but thankfully for him, she says nothing about it. "Ancient history," is all he can bring himself to admit.

She sighs in that very long-suffering Grace-like manner than always makes him feel just a little bit guilty. It means she's prepared to give him his space, but if he's not going to explain himself then he'd better stop obsessing. It also means that she knows he will tell her eventually, and that she's more than willing to wait if she has to.

Sometimes he wonders exactly where she gets her patience from, and then he usually gives up wondering that and ponders how on earth she maintains enough of it to deal with him, or why she even wants to. Exasperating her is sometimes fun, but it isn't always his intention. It's certainly not tonight. Yawning deeply, he tries to find the right words, casts his mind back over a saga that began so long ago it feels as though it should be deeply lost in the mists of time.

"He served in the army with my brother," he begins stretching his body and accidently disturbing the cat again, earning the brief clamping down of a set of sharp teeth onto his big toe through the quilt. "We were all supposed to go out for drinks one evening, but I never made it there. I got called to brawl at a pub a couple of streets away instead. Half a dozen drunken blokes were fighting over a woman, it seemed. Only it turned out she was the instigator. They all got nicked for public order, but she was later charged with possession with intent to supply and did time. That was nothing to do with me – I didn't even arrest her, one of my mates did. But when we all turned up at custody with the eight of them – there was another woman involved and the two of them had deliberately set up the fight – the sergeant had them all searched and they found cocaine and all sorts on her. Only afterwards did I find out she was Grouse's sister. He was pissed off, as you can imagine, and it didn't go down well with his superiors."

"That's why you hate him?"

Boyd shakes his head. "No, no that's just the back story really. He joined the Met not long after – a year or so, maybe? And then I spent three miserable years serving out of the same station with him. Mercifully not on the same team, but he was a dirty, underhand player. Used cheap tricks to get at me, make my life difficult. It was petty, and pathetic, but he was clever about it, never managed to get caught in all that time until one day my chief saw him and one of his buddies sneaking into our office and trying to damage a case file I'd been working on for months. They were trying to hide my notes or something – I don't really know because I wasn't there – but we'd moved the room around the day before and they got the wrong desk. I was on leave for a week and when I came back Grouse had been transferred to the arse end of nowhere. Which of course was my fault."

"It all seems very… schoolboyish… to me," Grace observes, tugging the quilt a little closer.

"It is, I agree. It's utterly ridiculous, but he's been a thorn in my side for longer than I care to remember. These days I typically don't see him except for once a year when refresher training comes around, but even that's plenty. And he's still at his tricks – looking for every opportunity he can to fail me and anyone associated with me. Actively trying to trip me up."

"That's pathetic." There's no missing the disgust in her voice. Grace has never suffered fools lightly, and in the years he's known her he has seen some spectacular confrontations with people who, in his opinion, have well and truly deserved her wrath. It's never a disappointment. Watching Grace when she's angry and riled up is not only hugely entertaining, but it also does things for him, to him. Things that, later on in the privacy of their home, tend to lead to spectacular results.

His mind beginning to wander, he's brought back down to earth with a bang by her next words. "I still don't understand why you're afraid of him, though."

Boyd bristles immediately, he can't help it. Even knowing she's teasing him, he pushes back with, "I am _not_ afraid of him! I just dislike him. Intensely. He's a short-arsed little shit with an attitude problem and gigantic lack of professionalism."

She's outright laughing now, and he sighs in heavy resignation, knowing that once again he's fallen neatly into her trap. "Oh piss off," he mutters, but despite the attempted annoyance in his tone, his arms only draw her closer as he tucks his chin into the curve of her neck. "It's a bloody good job I love you," he tells her, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

"It is," she agrees, and though he can't see it, he just knows she's grinning. "Keys…" There's more laughter in her voice as Grace slips a hand through his, though as she relaxes back into him he can sense she's calming. "What on earth were you dreaming about?"

Boyd wants to roll his eyes at the memory, irritated as he is with the tricks his subconscious was trying to play on him. "I was going through handcuff drills with Grouse, and he had a mouthful of keys. Every time I got one cuff on the little bastard, he spat a key out and unlocked himself. He wouldn't let me complete the drill, and it's a requirement for passing the course."

"What the hell kind of dream is that?" asks Grace, and there's a hint of a returning giggle in her tone as she says it.

"A fucking nightmare," he mutters resentfully, irritation unexpectedly rising again. "Honestly, Grace, you don't know what he's like. He hates me – always has. And it's not even my fault."

She sighs softly, stretches out to her full length, body pressing back against his. "Okay, if you say so."

"I do," he answers, with feeling. A moment's pause, and then something occurs to him. "Wait, what? You're not going to argue with me?"

She sounds sleepy again, as though she's concentrating to slipping back into the depths of her own slumber. "No."

"Why not?"

"It's the middle of the night."

"Yeah, so? That's never stopped you before."

"I'm tired."

"That's also never stopped you before."

"Peter?" She sounds sweet, patient. It sets his nerves tingling with warning.

"Yes...?"

"Unless you can think of something better to do than whinging about Adam Grouse and handcuff keys, shut up and go back to sleep."

He sighs heavily, knowing she is right. "Yes, Grace."

Five minutes pass, and he lies awake thinking darkly about the morning's required session in the gym, the shuttle run, the first aid seminar, the handcuff drills and unarmed defence tactics, all of which he's so well-versed in he could walk through in his sleep. The thought of going through it all with that man though… Giving himself a firm mental shake he decides she is right and closes his eyes once more, forcefully blocking it out. After everything the pair of them have survived in the last year, one grouchy ex-drill sergeant with a sizable if misplaced grudge is nothing.

Shifting his concentration, he lets his thoughts wander far closer to home. As close as the woman in his arms, even. His senses sharpen as he takes in the pattern of her breathing, the heat of her skin against his own. The scent of her, the way the faint moonlight reveals sleep-tousled hair and eyes closed in easy relaxation when he glances down at her. He got lucky when he met her all those years ago, he decides, and he's only been luckier and luckier since as their friendship developed and endured, finally turning into something more despite all the obstacles that had to be overcome. Something worth far more than its weight in gold.

He kisses the back of her neck lightly, lips lingering there against the soft skin, his nose nuzzling tenderly through her hair. "Grace?"

"Mm?"

"I've thought of something better to do…"


End file.
